


Crawl Home

by ipoiledi



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipoiledi/pseuds/ipoiledi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stupidly, the first thing that he notices is the open window.</p><p>(An insert for the sneak preview of AOU, taking place on Old McBarton's Farm.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crawl Home

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever AOU fic. Possibly THE first ever AOU fic. This is clearly my proudest moment. Also, damn! I finally made a tumblr! Look for me under the same name.

As usual, losing his temper with Stark doesn’t actually manage to fix anything. He’s still wound up and angry by evening. Nat spends dinner pressing her knee against his when she sits down beside him on the couch, which he recognizes as code: _we’ll drink Clint’s good stuff all night if you want to._ But he doesn’t do it. Instead he goes back to one of the spare bedrooms and sits on the bed and looks at his hands. He takes his phone out and rereads his last conversation with Sam — _is something going down? — sit tight eyes open —_ and thinks about calling, but ultimately decides not to. He brushes his teeth with his index finger in the bathroom. He shuts the light off and walks back to the room he’s bunking down in, ready for a sleepless night.

Stupidly, the first thing that he notices is the open window.

“Don’t move.” 

“ _Buck_.”

“Stay where you are.” His voice is rough and disused. He looks terrible — stubble so thick it’s nearly a beard, and unwashed long hair, and a baseball cap. Steve’s heart is in his throat. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He realizes dimly that he’s shaking all over his body.

“You can put the gun down.” Steve doesn’t even know what he’s saying: all he can hear is the deafening rush of blood in his head. “I ain’t gonna do anything. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Bucky, _please_. I —“

Bucky throws down the pistol. Just drops it out of his hand and onto the floor. He takes a step closer, and another, and another. “Steve,” he says. He sounds like his heart is breaking, and his eyes are big, and his mouth is twisted. “Stevie.”

Steve can’t help it. He fists a hand in Bucky’s ratty green jacket and pulls him close. Their bodies are suddenly touching everywhere, hips, shoulders, chests, arms, heads. Steve sucks in a breath without meaning to, a deep, shuddering noise. And Bucky clings to him like he’s dying, or drowning, or falling, shoving his face into Steve’s hair. He cups the back of Steve’s head with his metal hand. It clicks and revs, quietly, while he shakes.

“I’m here,” Steve gasps, and clutches at him. “Oh, God. I’m here. I’m right here.” 

“Stevie,” Bucky’s murmuring, “I saw on the television. You hurt? Steve? Answer me. _Answer me_.” 

“No, I’m not hurt, I’m not — Jesus Christ, Buck, are _you_ alright?” And then before he really processes what he’s doing he’s patting him down, touching his face, and the hair on his face, and his hard, huge shoulders, checking for injuries. “Are you alright?”

His throat is closing up on him and his vision is blurring. He shoves it down and blinks hard so  he can really look him over. Buck seems better, even though his eyes are little wild, and his whole body is held tight. Suddenly Steve is hyperaware of the fact that he’s in a little cabin with a team of trained spies and a god and _Tony fucking Stark_. 

“Did anybody see you come in?” he demands, in a whisper. “Buck —“

“No, nobody saw — whaddaya think, huh? Jesus, no, nobody…” Bucky says. He’s so shaken. He grabs Steve’s face in his hands, and at least his right hand is familiar: strong, sturdy, with calloused square fingers. He stares at Steve, and searches his eyes. Steve lets him. 

“It’s you,” Steve says.

“Sorry,” Buck replies, almost nonsensically, his voice low. He’s still staring at him, his eyes darting over Steve’s face, cataloging — memorizing, Steve realizes, and it makes his insides twist. “I’ll go in a minute. I just gotta…I had to look at you.” 

Steve might as well be back in Brooklyn in 1930 when Bucky talks that way. He feels like he’s been kicked in the chest.

“Bucky,” says Steve helplessly. 

“I don’t remember a lot,” Bucky murmurs, “But I remember this.” 

And he smashes their mouths together. Steve makes a noise in his throat he doesn’t recognize, something like a sob, and knocks Bucky’s hat off to fist both hands in his dirty hair. Bucky hauls him closer. Their teeth click. It hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad. Bucky grabs Steve around the waist, and then wraps him up in his arms. Steve is hard faster than he’s ever been in his life: Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s big hands — he’s missed this, he’s missed sex, missed it desperately, horribly — he’s missed Bucky’s thigh pushing his legs apart, he’s missed the way Bucky kisses; the way he holds him down; the way it is to be wanted, the way it is to please someone. There’s a whir and a click in the quiet. His left arm around Steve’s back is strong and hard. Steve doesn’t care.

“Come here,” Bucky’s muttering, hot, a growl in his voice. “Come here, c’mere…” 

They can’t get close enough. Bucky starts pulling on Steve’s shirt and roughly he gets it over his head. He makes a hungry sound in his throat when he kisses Steve again. Steve doesn’t know what he’s allowed to touch. He pushes Bucky’s shirt up between them and scratches his blunt nails down Bucky’s torso, hard and flat with muscle. It still makes Bucky crazy. 

“Baby,” Bucky rasps, quiet, into Steve’s mouth. Steve feels his heart stop dead in his chest. “Baby…”

“God,” Steve manages. “Oh, Buck. God —“ 

“I was supposed to stay away —“

“Please.” 

“Stevie.”

Bucky stares at him with his eyes huge and damp at the edges, desperate, his mouth twisted and his fingers, especially on the metal hand, digging so hard into Steve’s waist that he knows he’ll have bruises. He doesn’t care. He wants bruises. 

“I was supposed to stay away,” he repeats, more to himself. His eyes search Steve’s face. “I told myself I would, I swore…”

“Don’t stay away,” Steve whispers, desperate. “I won’t be able to stand it. You leave me again, I swear to God, I’ll die — I’ll wither up without you —” 

“God _damn it_ ,” Bucky hisses, suddenly furious, and kisses him again, and again, and suddenly kissing Bucky has become breathing. Steve can’t unstick himself. He thinks it might kill him if he tries. Bucky pops the button on Steve’s jeans getting them off, and it pings and bounces and spins off the floor to the other side of the room. He lifts Steve up — lifts him, like he’s nothing, like he’s ninety-five pounds soaking wet again; and then they’re on the bed, Bucky on top of him, around him, and he smells like sweat, but also like Bucky — his sweet, dark musk — and enough testosterone that it’s making Steve’s head spin. 

“Baby,” Buck’s mumbling, quiet, so quiet: “Sweetheart…” 

And then Bucky is nosing into Steve’s hair, and at his ear, and sliding down, his worn civvies rough on Steve’s naked body. Their lips touch, somehow, eventually — and then again they’re kissing, and Steve feels his body arch up without him thinking about it, arch into Bucky’s, skin wanting skin. He tugs off Buck’s jacket while Bucky fumbles with his belt, his hands shaking — those hands, the hands Steve knows so well, better than his own…God help him, he’s loved those hands his entire life, even when they were around his neck. 

“Come on,” Steve mouths, not even a whisper, just a breath: first into Bucky’s mouth, and then against his cheek. “Buck, Bucky, _God_ —“ 

“Hush,” Bucky says, and flips Steve onto his belly, and yanks Steve’s hips so he’s on his knees, his ass up. Steve drops his face into the pillow, gasping, shocked, wanting it. He hears Bucky spit and his body goes burning hot, and then he’s there, Bucky’s there, inside him, where he’s supposed to be — coming home, after all this time. It hurts. It’s supposed to hurt. It has to hurt. It hurts because it’s real. Steve’s mouth drops open hard and in his effort not to yell he fists his hands in the sheets so fiercely that they tear, and he bites the pillow until his lips are raw and his mouth is dry from the starchy fabric. Suddenly Bucky pulls him up by the hair and slaps his right hand over Steve’s mouth to muffle the noise. Steve can’t help it this time, and makes a stifled wail with Bucky all the way inside him. 

Bucky’s chest is heaving, Steve can feel it. On his hands and knees, Bucky quieting his sounds, filled up with him, Steve thinks he’s going to die. Steve hasn’t done this in — he hasn’t done this in forever. Bucky’s cock is hot, blindingly hot, blood-hot, and close, too close inside him: filling him up so full that Steve’s throat even feels tight. And then Bucky moves, presses impossibly closer into him, and Steve feels himself shake. Bucky presses his palms harder over Steve’s mouth, and suddenly his world becomes damp and hot and fuzzy. Bucky pushes into him again, and again, and again. It hurts. Steve loves it when it hurts. He loves this — Bucky’s dick — he loves it. And like Bucky can read his mind he starts to fuck him, really fuck him, and Steve’s eyebrows crease up and he tries to swallow up each whimper, each moan, but it gets harder, and harder, and harder. Bucky leans close and fucks him so deep and punishing that Steve is dimly glad the bed isn’t near the wall, and he can feel Bucky jamming his face into his hair, and then he feels Buck’s beard scratching against his neck, the back of his neck, his ear, and Bucky’s breath, warm, panting, trying not to groan — and he can’t think at all, he can’t, it’s impossible. Steve reaches back and fists a hand in Bucky’s hair. He turns his face into Buck’s, gasping into his hand, and suddenly Bucky makes a defeated whimpering noise and slows down.

And it drags, and pulls, the sweet, hot feeling: Bucky’s thick cock grinding inside him, right where it counts, just like before, just like always. Steve thinks he could cry, and fists his hand tighter in Bucky’s hair. Finally Buck moves his hand, rolling his hips, and kisses him on the mouth, dirty, slow, slow as Steve’s getting fucked, sucking on Steve’s tongue. 

“Buck,” Steve mouths, and when Bucky rolls his hips again, pressing his cock deeper inside, Steve can’t help it quick enough, and makes an _oh-oh_ noise before Bucky has shoved two fingers inside of Steve’s mouth. It turns out that even after all this time, he and Bucky are just as filthy as they’ve ever been, fucking in secret, trying to shut each other up. Desperate for every single second. 

“Look at you, look at you,” Buck’s whispering. “Look at you, God, baby…” and then he tugs Steve’s mouth to his, and Steve is angry, Steve is breathless: he bites Bucky’s lip, and he murmurs, “Touch me.”

Bucky makes a noise, maybe a sob, and his arms — so much stronger than they’ve ever been, and one unyielding, too solid — snake around Steve’s body. Buck grips with one hand at his shoulder and with his other at Steve’s hip, wrapped all the way around him. He’s shaking, finely, all over his body, and making small, small hurt noises, into Steve’s hair. Steve massages Buck’s scalp clumsily. Bucky’s metal hand digs in so sharply to Steve’s right hip that he can feel it grind against the bone, and he shoves his face into Steve’s neck, and when he comes he makes a noise like he’s been punched, even though he tries hard to stay quiet. Steve hasn’t felt this in so long — Buck’s hips pressed flush against him, his big greedy hands clutching at him, the way he shudders through it, the way he presses in harder and harder. Steve scrubs his hand through Bucky’s hair and feels his chest heave. And then suddenly he flips Steve onto his back, and puts his left hand over Steve’s mouth, and he kisses Steve’s neck, and takes Steve’s cock in his hand, and makes him come. Steve arches up against the pillows and scrapes his nails down Bucky’s chest, but it’s secondary: he can feel Bucky’s come inside him, he knows he got him off, and that’s satisfied him, somehow, already. 

Bucky’s eyes are huge and dark and reverent and maybe even wet when Steve looks up at him. Slowly he moves his hand from Steve’s mouth. He bends down and shakes and kisses him. 

“I gotta go,” he whispers.

There’s Brooklyn in his voice. Steve has to swallow hard. He has a million questions: how are you here? What have you been doing? Why can’t you stay? What do you remember? But he can’t make his voice work. 

“I gotta leave,” Bucky says, quiet. “I shouldn’t —“ his face twists terribly. “I shouldn’t stay, I thought you would be asleep.” 

“You were gonna watch me sleep?” Steve asks reflexively.

Bucky’s face twists suddenly like he might laugh, and then he does, a miraculous, tiny huff of air, almost exasperated. But then it falls away. “I was gonna check up on you. I was just checkin’ up. I saw on the news.” 

“M’fine,” Steve murmurs. “I’m just fine, Buck. Are you fine?” 

Bucky stares at him for a moment. Instead of answering he bends down and kisses Steve hard, and then pulls away. “I stay any longer, I’m not gonna leave at all,” he confesses. And then he stands and fixes his clothes, badly, and looks down at Steve. And so Steve stands up too, and puts on some clothes, and they both stare at each other for a long moment, and try very hard not to touch one another. It's a shared fear: if they start, they won’t remember how to stop. Steve recognizes it as a legitimate worry. 

But he breaks the rules and pulls Bucky close to him again anyway. 

“I’m seein’ you again,” he says, into Bucky’s ear. He shuts his eyes and tries to commit to memory every single detail of this precise moment. 

“Okay,” Bucky agrees, just as quiet. “Alright.” 

They don’t say goodbye. Bucky gathers up his gun and leaves through the window.


End file.
